Prologue

A vast desert rolled away into the distance in front of the walls of Andaban. Beyond it, the Korum Mountains cut like icy daggers into the pale blue sky. A sentry slowly paced the walls, staring out into the distance beyond the safety of the crumbling city. He stopped suddenly, seeing something. It was a lone figure riding a horse slowly along the northern road. In the distance suddenly the lone dark figure stopped and the rider fell to the ground.

“Oi!” The sentry called down to a guard next to the gate, “Someone on the road, go check it out.”

The guards were green-clad Free City mercenaries employed by The Company. The guards reluctantly got up from their game of dice and strolled out to look for themselves. “Where?”

“A quarter mile down the road.”

“You do it.” They shouted back.

“Fuck you, I’m on the wall, you’re down there. Your job. Do it.”

A sergeant emerged from the gatehouse, drawn by the shouting, “What’s all this, then?” The man was older, grizzled, with greying hair, an unkempt beard, and an untidy cavalryman’s black jacket.

“Man on the road, collapsed about a quarter mile out. These lazy bastards won’t bloody go and look!” The sentry shouted down.

“Okay, then I’ll do it.” The sergeant shouted up, “And these lumps will come and help me, won’t they?” The mean-looking sergeant glared at the mercenaries. They didn’t look the slightest bit chastened, but they did obey him, at least.

The guards rolled their eyes and they made their way out of the gate behind the sergeant. Ten minutes later they returned leading an exhausted bay horse and carrying a ragged sunburnt figure between them. A guard was sent running to get a lieutenant. The man was brought to an infirmary and his horse was stabled.

It was cool in the infirmary, or at least cooler than it had been outside in the sun. It wasn’t the hottest part of the year and the old sandstone buildings of Andaban were somehow miraculously comfortable even in summer. The man was unconscious. His clothes were in tatters. Once they had probably been neat and crisp and black. The uniform of a Vastrum soldier. Now they were caked with dried blood and dirt, with holes torn in them. The man was thin, like he hadn’t eaten in weeks and his skin was red and burned from the sun. He had a beard, scraggly and filthy. His lips were chapped and cracked. A nurse sat at the side of his bed and lifted a small cup of water to his mouth. He sputtered and coughed, but then roused for a moment to drink greedily, spilling water down his chin. Then he fell back into the bed. He tried to speak but his voice only cracked and induced a fit of coughing.

A few minutes later an officer strode in. A baby-faced lieutenant with dull eyes. The man’s uniform was tidy, he wore the black and red of an infantry officer. He wore a bicorn hat adorned with an ostrich feather in the newer style and had a shiny sabre at his hip.

“Who’s this? Why was I pulled away from my bridge game?” The lieutenant asked.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The sergeant who had brought him in was sitting in a chair opposite the bed, he didn’t rise to salute the officer. The soldier simply gestured to the unconscious man and spoke, his voice grim, “That there is Major John Dryden of the 13th Dragoons.”

The lieutenant looked from the sergeant to the man and back again, “Can’t be. They’re in Vurun.”

“They were, but he’s not anymore. He’s right there, use your eyes… sir.” He added the sir as an afterthought.

The man in the bed stirred and tried to speak. He croaked out a name, “Kurush…”

“What’s he on about?” The officer asked.

“That’s the first thing he’s said, I don’t rightly know what he’s talking about.” The sergeant replied, “Ought to go get the colonel, and maybe Major Havelock, eh Fitz? Sir?”

The young lieutenant gulped, nodded, then turned and ran off to find someone higher ranking.

It wasn’t long before the lieutenant returned with both Colonel Dansby and Major William Havelock in tow. The sergeant stood and snapped to attention when the older officers entered the room. Dansby was the commander of the garrison at Andaban. He was an old soldier. His face was tanned from the desert sun and bright blue eyes stuck out from behind bushy white eyebrows. Despite his age, he had a certain vigour to him. Havelock was a younger man with a darker complexion, sharp angular features, and a dour face. The colonel came to sit on the edge of the bed. He peered down at the soldier’s face. “Is it truly Major Dryden?” He asked, “I only met him once. Havelock, you knew him well, is this the man?”

“It is.” Havelock said with certainty, “How he came to be here, and in such a state, I cannot say, but it is indeed Major Dryden.”

“Will…“ The voice croaked from the form of Dryden, “Water…”

Another cup of water was offered, Dryden was propped up on a pillow and he drank. Then a bowl of broth was offered by the nurse. The colonel took the spoon from her and fed the man a few sips of the salty clear soup.

“John. The lieutenant here said you tried to tell him something. What was it?” Havelock asked.

“Kurush.” He said, becoming slightly more lucid.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“He’s coming… Their leader.” The major was able to croak, “An army.”

Colonel Dansby and Major Havelock looked at one another. “An army? We’d have heard of it by now. There’d have been messages, from Vurun.”

“All dead.”

“The messengers?” Dansby tried to clarify.

“The whole army.” He croaked between sips. As he drank his voice became clearer, though it was still raspy.

There was absolute silence in the room. Dansby scoffed, “You’re telling me that three thousand of the King’s Own are dead in Vurun?”

“No.”

The colonel started to let out a sigh of relief.

“They’re not dead in Vurun. The dead are scattered across the eastern slopes of the Korum and along the road to Settru Pass. They’re piled up at Golconda where we made our last stand. Three thousand of the King’s Own. Four thousand company mercenaries. Ten thousand sepoys. Not just the soldiers, but the women and children too. Most dead, a few were taken…” He trailed off in a fit of coughing.

“Blood and hounds.” The colonel swore.

“What about the enemy army?” Havelock asked, “You said they were coming.”

“Twenty thousand cavalry at least. They have a necromancer too, the dead walk with them. When they clear the Settru pass of ice, they’ll come here next. We have weeks at most, Will, perhaps only days.”

The colonel turned, “Sergeant Utley. Take the lieutenant and begin preparing defences. We’ll need every scrap of food, water, and ammo available. Send telegraphs to the garrison at Ythandis. We need every man we can get too. Havelock, I need your Dragoons patrolling out north. I will not be caught by surprise. Oh, before I forget, he said they have a necromancer. Get Annika and her mages to set wards on the cemetery, then dig up every bone you can find and rebury them outside the walls. I don’t want the dead rising inside the city.” Then he turned back to Major Dryden who was sitting up in the cot, “Now. Major. Tell me everything. How did the army die? Spare no detail, for I must know the enemy we face.”